


Dreams of Jotunheim

by Jotun_in_my_mind



Series: Dreams of Jotunheim [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23294707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jotun_in_my_mind/pseuds/Jotun_in_my_mind
Summary: In 3041, Sally is a member of a Shield ambassadorial team responsible for peace negotiations between Asgard and Earth.  Thor is King after Odin's death, and Loki, having long ago been pardoned for his attack on New York in 2012 after it was proved that Thanos was controlling him, is his senior advisor.  As a result, Loki spends considerable time on Earth and Sally works closely with him even though many people still fear him.  Over several years, they become friends, then lovers.  Everything is wonderful until Thanos attacks Earth himself and Loki is killed in battle.  Sally is heartbroken and finds evidence in historical documents that Thor made Loki King of Jutenheim after 2012 to show his confidence in his brother. Someone close had betrayed Loki to Thanos, leading to his recent death.  She accesses Shield technology to travel back to the appropriate time to save Loki from the traitor and to change his timeline and his inevitable fate.  Her actions broke many rules but she didn't care - she would risk the possibility that the Loki of the past was less tolerant, and more impulsive and volatile, and may well execute her for interfering.  It was a risk she was prepared to take if she could ensure that Loki lived.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Dreams of Jotunheim [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675249
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***Note & Disclaimer: I do not own Loki or Thor, they belong to Marvel. Sally and the rag-tag group of Jotun are all my creations.  
> I have absolutely no medical knowledge, so it’s just made up as I go along, don’t sue me, I just did what I thought fitted the story.  
> There will be some smut, but I will put a warning at the start of those particular chapters. There may also be swearing and rude language. Also, possibly the death of a major character.  
> There may be an incident or two of rape/non-con, but I will post warnings before those chapters.  
> If there are any Jotun names I will put the pronunciation in brackets [..] following  
> Unbeta’d, so all mistakes are my own. This effort is my first multi-chapter fanfiction, so I hope it’s not too awful.

The heavy silence was shattered in an instant. A resounding explosion destroyed the stillness and formed the air into a broiling mass of dust and debris that spread rapidly across the barren landscape. The concussive shockwave devastated Sally’s back as she instinctively turned her face away from the incoming danger, and she was violently wrenched from the ground as her breath was forced out of her lungs in a single sharp cry of pain. A cloud of rough debris enveloped her body and she twisted awkwardly within its’ powerful grip as razor-edged shrapnel created numerous ragged punctures in her protective clothing and buried into the flesh underneath. As she was forced further upwards amid a cloud of dust and debris, the blisteringly hot air captured her trailing left leg and forced it into a grotesque shape after a momentary resistance provided by her bones. Through it all, she maintained her determined grip on the tall man who was held tightly against her chest within her linked arms.

The explosive force dissipated as rapidly as it began, leaving only the deep guttural reverberations of echoes that mumbled across the landscape. Gravity regained control and everything airborne began descending sluggishly towards the grumbling landscape. Sally’s broken body settled lightly onto her companions’ back as they fell together to lay crumpled and motionless on the ashen sand. A veil of pale cement-grey dust drifted down and shrouded them almost protectively. An ever-thickening coating of grit settled across the greyscale landscape and gradually muffled the multitude of echoes into stillness. The impenetrable silence seemed deafening following the harshness of the explosion. It seemed the planet itself had screamed in utter desolation before admitting defeat and lapsing into silent protest.

The reticent world existed in varying tones and textures of grey objects and black shadows. The only discernible landmarks within the monotonal expanse of nothingness were roughly textured granitic boulders that sporadically rested on the loamy ground. Their substantial mass made them the only features large enough to cast shadows, though the shadows were merely patches of rather undefined darkness born of the miasmic light. Not the slightest hint of brown, ochre, or green was exhibited anywhere. 

The heavier particles had fallen reasonably quickly but the powder-fine dust took a surprisingly long time to resume its natural state. The temporarily airborne entities hung suspended stubbornly in mid-air as they resisted the faint tug of gravity for as long as possible after being ejected violently skywards. The tiny particles belligerently hovered and drifted for over an hour before reluctantly returning to the desiccated ground and resuming a sedentary terrestrial existence. 

The pervasive chalky particles settled thickly against Sally’s pale sweat-damp, drawn to the bounty of rarely experienced moisture, while they ignored the dry smooth skin of the other who lay beneath her. The dust sifted insidiously between the tightly woven fibres of her remaining clothing to reach into every crevice and fold of her skin. The thickening coating of dust seemed determined to mask her humanity and reshape her body into a poor replica of the boulders that littered the surrounding plains. 

As the dust became ever thicker and heavier, the fallen couple became increasingly shapeless. Slowly an offensive foreign colour began to mar the muted grey tones of the dirt that rested upon Sally as rich crimson blood, vivid in its contrast, seeped from her injuries to stain her surroundings. Her warm rich human blood flowed increasingly freely, and the grey ash changed almost reluctantly into progressively larger patterns of deepest crimson that shockingly marred the monochromatic environment. She continued to lay unmoving and silent, as the planet’s dust and her human blood argued amongst themselves over which colour would prevail. Crimson was increasingly victorious. It was only the smallest of ashen eddies that stirred fitfully into existence near her gritty face that betrayed her single remaining fragment of life as she breathed irregularly and shallowly.

Sally knew instinctively that her injuries were unsurvivable. She retained enough consciousness to register that irrefutable fact but felt no regret for her actions. It had been her purpose to be here, at this time and in this place, and she had done everything possible. She could feel him moving feebly beneath her, struggling to stand, but her meagre weight was sufficient to defeat his half-hearted attempts. Sally’s damaged body felt strangely buoyant and disconnected from the physical world around her, and her subconscious mind pleaded to be allowed to lose focus and to slip closer towards peaceful oblivion. She was temptingly aware that if she allowed the enticing buoyant feeling to enter her mind it would erase the pain. It would mask the searing agony of the black-edged burns that marred her skin from her left shoulder blade, down the entire curve of her back, and spread to wrap around the arch of her left hip. It would also mute the screaming pain of her numerous shattered bones and would quiet the sensations into merely irritating whispers of discomfort. But Sally also knew that she could not afford to submit to the bliss of unconsciousness until she was certain that her goal had been achieved. If she failed now her suffering would all have been for nothing.

Her traumatized senses coalesced slowly as she was increasingly shrouded in the suffocating dust. Her breathing was shallow and fast as she panted slightly, her body fighting against her mind and attempting to retreat into a safely numb state of shock. Sally’s shattered left leg was grotesquely bent mid-thigh to rest beneath her body, but she didn’t waste any energy attempting to return it to an anatomically correct position. It didn’t matter now, as long as he had survived. 

Sally was certain that she’d done everything that could possibly be done to save him. She’d heard the hollow whine of the approaching projectile and had instinctively turned her back towards it just before it detonated. There had been no hesitation as she placed herself between the incoming danger and his precious body and willingly sacrificed herself in a final desperate bid to keep him alive. Her left side had experienced the most damage as the concussive blast seared into her flesh and shattered the bones in her left leg so that it flailed awkwardly as her body was thrown up and forwards to land clumsily on top of her dazed companion. The impact had thrown them for several gravel-punctuated feet across the stony ground, but despite this she continued to grimly clutch his limp, cold body against her chest, stubbornly using her body to shield him as completely as possible. And she swore to continue her task as her approaching mortality crept up softly and bent low to embrace her wounded body. Only once she was certain of his safety would she be fully prepared to release her grip on life without further struggle or regret.  
Her companion was at least a foot taller than she was, and her faltering consciousness focused upon keeping her arms linked firmly together and the back of his head pressed firmly between her breasts where the bulk of her body would shield him best. His lean torso remained shielded by her pelvis and what remained of her solid thighs. Futilely, she also tried to keep his lengthy, muscular legs tucked away from harm as she held him close, but he continued in his clumsy attempts to rise, and she was rapidly losing the strength to restrain him. His drug-impaired mind failed to understand the imminent danger as he weakly struggled to escape from beneath her crumpled body. She gritted her teeth as she fought to restrain him against her body, hoping that an injured limb was less likely to be a fatal wound, and focused on protecting his head and vital internal organs. He. Must. Live. 

Even though she fought determinedly against the increasing weakness, Sally’s vision began to progressively blur and darken, and she resisted less and less the pleasant beckoning thoughts of unconsciousness that gently caressed her mind and offered to lend relief to the physical pain that racked her broken body.  
…………………………………………  
He had been barely able to stand, let alone walk, when she had found him heavily sedated and chained within a dank stone cell. She had wedged her small shoulder under his toneless arm and supported as much of his weight as she could as she pleaded urgently with him to move. The lower level of gravity on this hellish planet had allowed her to manoeuvre his uncoordinated body with reasonable ease and she had forced him into an erratic loping run even though his large bare feet threatened to trip her up with each stride. They needed to cover as much distance as quickly as possible before his absence from the cell was noticed by the Cree guards. 

The Cree were a violent race, but also predictable and arrogantly confident of their own superiority. They held no doubts that their internal systems of guards and locked cells could contain any prisoners, no matter how resourceful, without the need for extensive external surveillance. Sally was familiar with Cree tactics and knew that if they could cross the surrounding ground quickly enough to avoid discovery by the pre-programmed camera sentries that they had a fair chance of reaching safety and freedom. The armed sentry cameras scanned the landscape in front of them in a pre-programmed pattern and had a limited range within which they could detect movement. If they could get beyond that active range before the alarm was raised, they would be safe and able to move more slowly and carefully. His head lolled drunkenly as they wove through the scattered boulders but his long legs somehow managed to unconsciously follow her guidance towards safety.

Then the missile had landed right behind her and thrown them unceremoniously to the ground. It had been incredibly unfortunate that their furtive movements had been observed and roughly tracked just prior to reaching a safe distance, and the sentries had managed to get close with one of their vaguely aimed missiles. Four projectiles impacted the terrain nearby, sending up grey geysers of dust and debris, though they were wide of their target. Sally knew from experience that the automated Cree sentries would simply reset themselves and return to scanning their pre-programmed areas if they detected no movement after their initial bombardment. They would judge that the apparent threat had been neutralised and refocus to search their programmed sectors in a predictable grid pattern until triggered again. 

It would not matter if he moved away from her protection once the sentries reset themselves. They just needed to remain still for a few moments more. They’d put enough distance between themselves and the compound for any new movement to be beyond effective scanning range once the sentries erased their current targeting information and reset themselves to scan for new threats. Then he could move without risk of detection. She knew the drugs which currently impaired him would metabolise given time and his strategic mind would be more than capable of locating and activating the portal to transport himself to a place of safety. Now she had merely to act as a self-appointed human shield until the current threat passed. Then he would be responsible for himself. He must live. 

“Stay down.” Her steady commanding voice betrayed not a shred of the fear or weakness that overwhelmed her. “Stay down until it is safe.” 

Slowly the words began to register through the numbing drugs. His limbs stilled and he ceased his pitiful efforts to rise.  
Another detonation, further away than the first, sent additional slivers of shrapnel into her exposed back and her body shuddered involuntarily. He grunted weakly as several smaller fragments pierced the back of his naked thighs and calves. Sally frantically used her uninjured right arm to slap his exposed thigh and he responded automatically by pulling his long legs towards his chest in a defensive posture. Sally groaned as she shifted slightly and used her right leg to keep him roughly in position in front of her.  
Her thoughts were difficult to direct now, and she barely found the sense to repeat the direction before the fingers of unconsciousness wrapped themselves around her brain and squeezed out any further sensible activity.

“Stay down until it is safe. Stay. Down.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was while Sally treaded the line between unconsciousness and death that a troop of Ravagers, lurking at the periphery of the Cree stronghold, discovered the two wounded escapees and snatched them up before fleeing silently. The thieves and traders had arrived early at the Cree stronghold in preparation for the auction of several dozen captives of different races, mostly in the hope of robbing other attendees of their coin. Unexpectedly, their reconnaissance of the area had proved remarkably profitable when they discovered one of the most desired specimens laying injured but alive some distance from the compound, along with a curiously out-of-place mortal creature. They had scooped them up and rapidly left the area with their free prizes and had transported them to their own stronghold on a moon far from the Cree prison. There the Ravagers kept them sedated for ease of control and treated their wounds while they decided how to profit the most from their sale. Once they discovered what had happened, the Cree were incensed at their loss of honour and monetary gain and vowed revenge to whoever was responsible.  
…………………………………………………………………………………  
Sally returned to consciousness abruptly and her anxiety spiked when she realised that she no longer held him within her arms. She was lying on her less injured right side, her right leg bent comfortably, and her arms folded against her chest. She sucked in a shaky uncertain breath as she realised that she was also entirely naked and exposed. Her left leg had been splinted tightly and stretched out towards the foot of the bed, supported in several places with rolled-up blankets. 

As she attempted to move, she discovered that she was firmly restrained on the impressively solid metal bed. Her legs were both strapped down, and her wrists bound together and fastened to a strap that circled the bed and ran beneath her body. Another wide strap wrapped around her waist and was attached to the bed, allowing her to roll her hips but nothing more. The small amount of movement available made the adhesive dressings covering the blisters and shrapnel wounds on her back pull burningly at her skin and she winced. 

Sally ceased struggling against the straps that firmly held her damaged body as her overwhelmed mind registered that someone had provided her with medical attention. Obviously, they weren’t going to kill her immediately, or they wouldn’t have bothered with the effort of treating and dressing her wounds. She further theorised that her state of nakedness was perfectly explainable as the removal of her filthy clothing would have been necessary to clean and assess her wounds in a semi-sterile environment. But she failed in her efforts to comprehend why they had tied her up so securely when her injuries rendered her immobile anyway. She sighed deeply in resignation. There was no option but to stay where she was and wait for an explanation from whomever currently controlled her life. 

Mentally, she assessed her battered physical state and found that it was pretty much as she expected. Her left leg had been pierced by shrapnel in multiple places and fractured both above and below the knee. It was now encased in a firm splint that included her entire foot and reached high enough to nestle uncomfortably against her groin. The splint had been fitted in such a way that it allowed the worst of the open wounds and burns to remain accessible for on-going treatment between the rigid metal stays. Dressings stretched across her back and shoulders and she could feel a few puckering at the skin of her thighs as well. Sally winced at the thought of removing the extensive areas of adhesive when the time came to redress the burns. She was thankful, though, that it felt like all of the shrapnel had been removed. At least if the foreign bodies had been removed immediately and the wounds cleaned properly, they were less likely to become infected and necrotic. It would be a shame to survive the explosion to die of an infection a week later.

The deepest burns on Sally’s left shoulder blade and down her side had been generously coated with a thick clear viscous substance and gently draped with a damp gauze-like material. She noted with relief that the ointment obviously possessed strong analgesic properties as she could barely feel the raw areas where the tissue had burned away. Vaguely intruding into her muddled thoughts was the unforeseen possibility that she might actually survive after all. Sally refused to listen and allowed herself to drift into the pleasant oblivion of unconsciousness once more.  
Two days later Sally’s awareness surfaced again. She was still restrained in the same manner but now there was an indistinct figure seated in the chair near the foot of the bed. It was impossible to identify them, but Sally was irrationally pleased to no longer be alone. Her voice rasped painfully from a dry mouth as she forced herself to speak. 

“Does he live?” She asked in the one language, apart from English, that she was fluent in. Jotnar.

The figure stood stiffly and moved closer to the side of the bed with carefully measured steps. His voice was emotionless and abrupt as he answered in the same tongue. 

“He will live for as long as we allow it.” 

Sally closed her eyes and her cracked lips smiled slightly. Any curiosity concerning the identity of her visitor was forgotten as the relief washed over her. 

“Then all is good.” Her voice remained weak, but the statement was certain. 

The hovering figure remained silent, observing the human’s apparent contentment at receiving this news, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered the unexpected fact that she spoke the Jotnar language with apparent ease. Sally’s mind retreated once more into a dreamless sleep as the silent figure stood above her. He studied her for some time before returning to maintain his silent vigil from the chair. 

In her disturbed sleep, she repeatedly cried out, unintelligible nonsense and cries of alarm and anger. And she cried out his name. Her body jerked against its shackles as dreams caused it to twitch and spasm in answer to unseen provocations. The stranger silently watched it all, completely intrigued by this unpredictable creature before him. He could not understand why she remained fixated on protecting someone who was so utterly unworthy of such dedication. 

While Sally lay unconscious her body worked diligently to knit bone fragments back together and grow fresh skin and muscle to repair the damaged areas. As she healed and regained her strength, Sally’s sleep became more troubled and restless. Her captors required stronger potions to keep her sedated and used larger doses administered at decreasing intervals. She fought against them each time until her body succumbed to the drugs. The snatches of information she overheard while conscious had revealed that he had not yet reached safety and reclaimed his throne, and she was determined to finish what she had started to the best of her ability.  
…………………………………………………………………….  
For nearly three years the clan leaders of Jotunheim had gathered together daily in the personal rooms of their missing King. They simultaneously probed the corridors of the capital for the traitors responsible for the Kings’ betrayal and searched to locate his place of confinement so that he could be liberated and those accountable brought to justice. Tempers flared and accusations were made as their frustration mounted. For the Kings’ abductors to remain hidden for so long was becoming suspicious and many believed that they continued to be aided by someone from within the ranks of the Jotun clan leaders. One of the innumerable factions of Cree, all of whom held a grudge against the Jotun King, were most likely responsible for his abduction, but there were so many disjointed groups of Cree throughout the universe that it was difficult to ascertain exactly which one was responsible. 

The King had refused repeated offers of allegiance with the Cree and left them to be defeated by several other political and military powers. The survivors had become scattered throughout the nine realms and grouped together in huddles of angry and vengeful warriors and their civilian followers. In the Kings’ absence the ruling of the empire had been done by Foglmenni, a respected nobleman and warrior who had served closely with the old King, Laufey, and now served this King, his son Loki, as an advisor and counsellor.

Foglmenni was convinced that the King had initially been captured by the Cree after an unknown Jotun had betrayed his location to the honourless horde of Cree. The Jotun traitors were obviously closely associated with the King, with knowledge of his movements and security, and each Jotun clan had begun showing increased distrust in the other clans as a result. 

Four days ago, a communication between two Ravager ships had been intercepted and enabled them to focus their search on a much smaller area. The message described the discovery of two wounded individuals - a Jotun warrior and a strange mortal creature - stranded in the Badlands surrounding a Cree base on a desolate planet within the Azholus system. The Jotun council understood immediately that this particular troupe of Ravagers had made a chance discovery and stumbled upon their wounded King after he had escaped the Cree facility and had taken him into captivity again and moved him to their own facility. It also became apparent that the Ravagers were unaware that the Jotun in their hands was the King, and the council knew that to reveal this information would result in his immediate death. 

The Ravagers then moved their captives down to the surface of an uninhabited moon and held in an underground bunker complex while they healed. To maximise their recovery, they remained sedated and immobile and fed intravenously. The Ravagers used this waiting time to send out advertisements for the sale of their newest acquisitions and interested buyers began to travel towards the site. The unscrupulous traders planned to sell their unique cargo to the highest bidder once they were both healed satisfactorily, and this allowed the Jotun Clan leaders to spend several days preparing their assault. The description of the captured Jotun was detailed, and all of the clan leaders were certain that it could be none other than their betrayed King. They paid no attention to mentions of the other captive as it was no concern of theirs once they restored the King to his throne.  
……………………………………………………………….  
With seasoned efficiency the small orderly groups of barefooted Jotun warriors silently approached the Ravager compound from all sides as the initial rays of dawns’ bleak light crept over the horizon. They moved with impressive speed and successfully breached the outer security measures before any alarm was raised. As sirens rang and the heavy booted footsteps of the defending Ravagers thundered down hallways, the Frost Giants systematically killed everyone who opposed them. There was to be no mercy for those responsible for such a dishonourable act as they reclaimed their fallen leader from his unjust imprisonment. 

The meagre undisciplined ranks of Ravagers fell quickly and bloodily before the merciless onslaught of the immensely skilled Jotun warriors. For the first time in centuries, the Jotun tribes were united in battle and fought to restore their King to his rightful place with their victory. After dispatching their enemies with considerable ease, the Jotun soldiers gathered outside the main entrance to the facility. Ten warriors from each clan were selected to enter and search for their King, while the remainder formed a perimeter and located any hidden Ravagers who had not yet joined the fight. 

Huge bare feet slapped purposefully along the tiled floor as they moved from room to room, and from level to level. They soon discovered the pitiful form of their unconscious King in a dank subterranean dungeon. His filthy body had begun to heal though it still showed clear signs of his having been beaten cruelly. Both of his wrists and ankles were scraped bloody and raw by the vicious metal manacles that had been welded into place around his graceful limbs. Heavy blows from the back of a battle axe managed to tear the fittings for the chains from the floor and the Jotun warriors carefully gathered up the restraints together with their King to be given more attention on their return to Jotunheim. 

With silent respect they carried him on a cloak stretched between them as they strode through the hallways of the ad-hoc prison and out towards his victorious army. They would soon carry him home and remove his restraints and he would heal in the way all Jotun did on their home planet. Something in the planet itself seemed to hasten their recovery and it would heal him in the same manner. The King could then continue to lead their homeland towards a more prosperous future, but not before they slaughtered every living thing on this damned planet as a message to those who dared to disrespect him.  
…………………………………………………………………………..  
Methodically and efficiently they moved from room to room with a single purpose. The Jotun soldiers killed all who they found, whether they were Ravagers or slaves or other prisoners waiting to be sold. Until they discovered Sally. The young Jotun warrior deftly stabbed her lone Ravager guard through the throat and contemptuously tossed his crumpled corpse to the floor. He hissed derisively at the pathetic attempt the smaller individual had made to defend itself. Turning his attention to the only other living being in the room, he moved purposefully towards the small creature that was restrained on the bed. He was intent on quickly slitting its’ throat and continuing his search and destroy mission until he realised what type of creature lay before him. 

Surprise made him pause momentarily as his eyes narrowed and studied the tiny pale body. He had not seen one of this species for at least three centuries. The restraints made it abundantly clear that the creature was not here willingly, and he was immensely curious about the mortal’s completely unexpected presence in this place. But his curiosity would not be enough to stop him from killing it along with everything else in this place. The few mortal creatures he had seen so long ago had already been dead, and he found himself presented with an unparalleled opportunity to confirm that the body heat of the small mortal creature was indeed as dangerous as the ancient books about them described. He had never physically touched a Midgardian before and tentatively reached out a large grey-blue hand and cautiously touched her pale exposed neck. His crimson eyes widened in surprise and he withdrew his hand quickly with lightly scorched fingers. 

The frigid touch to Sally’s neck jolted through her drugged brain and she stirred futilely within her restraints. The startled warrior took an involuntarily step backwards and raised his knife defensively. Sally cried a low pained moan that grew to become a wail as she struggled against the sedation. 

“Loooooki!” 

The warrior tilted his head, unsure if he had heard correctly. Then the name came again as a whisper just as the drugs returned the mortal to silence. 

“Loki.” 

The warrior swiftly changed his grip on his blade and stepped forwards with a new purpose. With precise strokes, he sliced through the bindings that held the mysterious, confusing thing. His actions left traces of dark blood from his previous victims smeared on the severed ends of the straps as they hung loosely from the table. Striding back to the dead Ravager, the Jotun roughly tore off its’ heavy fabric cloak. He threw it over the unconscious mortal and unrolled the blankets that had supported its’ splinted leg to provide additional layers of protection against the burning heat of its skin. He thoroughly wrapped the small yet frighteningly dangerous body tightly to guarantee a sufficient level of insulation before he lifted it easily with one massively muscular arm. For over an hour the Jotun warrior carried his prize while he continued to search and destroy every other living thing he encountered.  
…………………………………………..  
A huddle of Jotun warriors quickly surrounded the young soldier as he emerged into the morning light carrying a shapeless bundle somewhat uncertainly against his side. As they neared him to inspect what he had found, their large aquiline noses crinkled in distaste and several growled in disgust. 

“Braal![bra-rll similar to fuck] What in the Norns smells so bad?”

“Millitorr [milla-tor], what in the Nine Realms have you dragged out to torture us with?”

Even the more seasoned soldiers hesitated to approach any nearer as a cloyingly musky stench pervaded the immediate area around Millitorr, and the hesitant young warrior cleared his throat gruffly as his group leader fixed him with smouldering crimson eyes filled with accusation.

“It is a Midgardian, I think. It is certainly scorchingly hot and smells badly enough to pass for one.” Millitorr took a breath and spoke with more confidence as he met the leader’s eyes. “It spoke the King’s name. I heard it. Twice. I thought it prudent to seek your opinion on what to do with it. I can think of no reason why a mortal should know anything of our King.”

The heavily bearded clan elder pursed his lips in thought, making the small trinkets sewn into his wavy auburn beard sway slightly. He stepped closer, peering at the small amount of hair and skin that was visible from within the blanket and cloak wrapping, and grunted at the distasteful thing.

“It definitely stinks well enough to be Midgardian. And I can feel the awful heat radiating from it at this distance.” He paused thoughtfully again. “We will take it with us and allow the King himself to decide what to do with it. I am certain that he will want to know how it speaks his name, and who knows, he may want to keep it as a curiosity, or perhaps a pet, while it still lives. Millitorr, you will carry it as we return to Jotunheim.”  
Millitorr nodded reluctantly and several derisive comments were sent his way by comrades who were extremely glad to not be carrying the stinking bundle themselves. He cursed them and bemoaned the circumstances that had left him in such a predicament to be the one to find the creature and to be burdened with it.

“And you shall report directly to the King of what you heard it speak.”

Millitorr’s chest swelled a little and his hunched posture straightened as he processed this opportunity. A face to face interaction with the King was something he had never expected to experience, and he was aware that now his comrades seemed to be a little jealous of his role in the day’s events.

“Yes, Reidrmenni [rider-many], thank you.” The warrior nodded at his leader who nodded in return and turned to gather his troops together and return to the transport portal.

Sally remained blissfully unaware as she was carried, clutched under Millitorr’s substantial arm, to the portal and transported across the Bifrost from a barren desert world to a planet of ice and snow and blizzards.


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki has been rescued from imprisonment and is rushed back to Jotunheim for urgent medical treatment. He is starving and incredibly weak. He is attended by his personal physician, Wyleggnir [why-leg-near] and we are introduced to several Jotun characters and begin to find out about Jotun society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, any Jotun names will have pronunciations in brackets afterwards. [....]

The imposing iron-studded entry doors to the King’s private chambers swung open to admit a towering individual and the milling crowd that had hurriedly gathered upon hearing the news of the King’s liberation turned as one to observe the new arrival. The agitated mass of highly ranked officials, clan chieftains, and council members now half-filled the large room and their rumbling voices swiftly died away as they beheld the King’s personal healer and his assistant. Even among the gathered Jotun, Wyleggnir [why-leg-near] was strikingly large, and his proud confident bearing only enhanced his already substantial physical presence. The crowd parted wordlessly as he crossed the main room without Trailing closely behind him was an equally tall but substantially younger and leaner individual whose head was bowed, and whose body language radiated extreme self-consciousness in the presence of so many significant people. He mirrored Wyleggnir’s steps exactly and walked as close as physically possible behind the bulkier man as if trying to shield himself from view, repeatedly glancing nervously sideways at the gathered crowd as they passed through. His wide dark-lashed eyes were a curiously dull shade of strawberry red, muted as though painted in a too-weak watercolour ink, and seemed almost colourless against his intense cobalt skin and vivid coppery-red hair. 

At a little over ten feet tall, Wyleggnir was undoubtedly among the tallest individuals gathered in the King’s rooms, but it was his exceptionally powerful build that set him apart from the slender physiques of those that surrounded him. He still moved with the easy fluidity that typified the Jotun race, but his actions were underlined with the additional promise of extraordinary strength stored within thick muscular limbs and a wide, deep chest. Wyleggnir was instantly recognised and the appropriate amount of respect displayed, but his younger companion’s face was openly examined by those unfamiliar with him in order to determine his clan ties and to verify the relevance of his presence at such a critical time. New laws that had been introduced several generations ago that allowed previously forbidden inter-clan blending to occur unmonitored and this had caused a blurring and merging of the distinguishing physical attributes of each separate tribe and produced individuals of increasing physical diversity. The ritualistic scarring and tattooing on a Jotun’s face had become the only accurate way to determine a true indication of tribal identity.

It was possible to instantly determine a Jotuns’ clan lineage, tribal territory, and year of birth, from the designs that were etched onto his face in childhood. The marks were as distinct as a signature, and, in Wyleggnir’s case, the three parallel facial lines stretching horizontally from his wide bridged nose across his well-fleshed cheeks instantly marked him as a member of the Steinnkvisa [Styne-keesa]clan, a mountain-dwelling tribe renowned for their skill as stonemasons and their impressively muscular build. The narrowing of the lines as they disappeared underneath the gathering of ornamented braids falling from his temples indicated that he was of the western sect of the Steinnkvisa people, one of the more prosperous and historically important clans. It was solely due to their prosperity that Wyleggnir had been given the opportunity to re-train as a healer after a knee injury left him without the immense strength required of a truly proficient stone worker. A lesser tribe would almost certainly have guided him into a position of menial servitude and Wyleggnir was ever thankful that he had been provided with a new path upon which to direct his life. In addition to the tribal identifiers, an intermittent line of raised circular marks began within the centre of Wyleggnir’s hairline and traced a path down his forehead, passing between his deep plum-purple eyes and down the flattish bridge of his nose to finish with a final mark hidden within the foliage of his moustache. At either end of the line, the marks were little more than a spot, a fleck, but the central ones along his nasal bridge and through his brow-line were larger than his thumbprint and appeared oddly shiny as they reflected the warm flickering lights that bathed the dullish skin of his face.

The impressive facial display meant that even those few individuals who were unfamiliar with him automatically bowed their heads in deference, recognising that he was among the longest surviving of their race, having passed his 9,000th year some centuries ago. Without the evidence of his birth year carved onto his face, Wyleggnir could have been mistaken for a much younger man. He took great pride in maintaining his still-youthful physique and carefully styled his hair to minimise the signs of lightening that occurred with age. The flames flickering in the bracketed torches on the walls caused his darkly auburn hair to flash copper as it fell in loose waves past his broad leather-strapped shoulders. He wore most of his hair loose and lightly oiled while it continued to retain the darkness of youth. He considered his dark thick hair a visible badge of his ageless masculinity, though he had recently begun to include a wide neat braid pulled back from each temple to gather together at the back of his head. The braids were wound through with several dark cords of glossy plaited leather which drew the eye away from the paler strands of hair that had begun to appear with alarming frequency over the last couple of centuries. When forced to do so, and only when surrounded by his closest friends, even Wyleggnir had to admit that his equally luxuriant beard had become rather lighter and flecked with blonde as he had aged, though he generally blamed the rigours of his profession for the change in his physical image. His noticeably blonde-streaked moustache was worn in two thick, braided ropes that rested heavily against the darker bulk of his beard, pulled down by the weight of numerous metal and bone ornaments woven into them.

The warm light also highlighted a subtle design of woven coppery threads that decorated the edges of his woven cloak as it fell in thick rust-brown folds to brush against the back of his knees as he walked. The only other article of clothing that he wore was a tightly folded and laced loincloth of pale grey suede that wrapped around his groin and upper thighs. His thickset torso was girdled by a series of wide leather straps, rings, and buckles that fastened the heavy cloak firmly to his bare shoulders. The careful design and placement of the straps successfully enhanced his bulging pectoral muscles while disguising his slightly thickening stomach, which was a consequence of Wyleggnir’s rapt appreciation for a good measure of sweetened mead in the evening. Around his solid abdomen rested a wide belt, as wide as his formidable handspan, the leather of which had become supple and pliant with centuries of constant use. On his right hip, four small equally well-worn pouches of leather and two distinctly shaped daggers in scuffed sheaths hung from metal fittings on the belt. A separate thinner belt positioned slightly higher, secured his six-foot sword in its scabbard against his left hip and he walked with the practised ease of someone for whom a weighty sword is an everyday accessory. He may have been considered as crippled by his birth clan, but his skill with a sword had been demonstrated innumerable times in battle.

Wyleggnir is regarded by many Jotun as an example of absolute power and stability, able to be level-headed and diplomatic when obliged to work within the intricacies of changing political climates, but also possessing the practical combat skills necessary to defeat anyone who stood against his King. The four warrior braids that Wyleggnir proudly displays in front of his right ear only increase his extraordinary reputation as a warrior, though the numerous scars that mark his body are a testament to the price he has paid during those battles. Many Jotun would never receive even a single warrior braid, and the fact that Wyleggnir has earned four is unprecedented. The authority to wear such a prestigious emblem is bestowed only by peers-in-battle and requires the performance of uniquely courageous action. Two or three small objects, commonly sourced from the fallen enemy, are tied into the braids to indicate which battle they represent. Wyleggnir’s braids showed that he had triumphed against Cree, Chitauri, Titans, and Asgardian forces in battle. 

Remembrance braids are comparable but are worn on the left. As would be expected of a warrior race, violent deaths among the Jotun are frequent, but only exceptionally significant kinsmen or friends are immortalised by having a lock of their hair woven into a braid worn by those who remained among the living. Instead of securing the end of the braid with twine or a thin leather string, these had the ends of the hair melted together with the wearers’ own hair in a permanent display of respect. Wyleggnir wears five remembrance braids, four of them from one traumatic incident, and those who know never speak of how he received the glossy scars caused by burns to the front of both legs below the knee. As his long strides carried him across the main chamber of the King’s quarters, Wyleggnir fervently prayed that he would not be adding to his remembrance braids with a length of Loki’s ebony hair.

Two members of the Royal Chamber Guards who had been relieved from their positions at the entry door now stood flanking an open internal doorway at the side of the large main chamber. They recognised Wyleggnir and did not challenge him as he entered the King’s dimly lit bed chamber and pushed through a broad heavily curtained opening into an expansive and brightly lit bathing room. His large bare feet were silent on the smooth flagstones as he approached the filthy blood-smeared body that lay naked upon a plain wooden bench. A quick glance at the familiar surroundings told Wyleggnir that several items of furniture had been hastily moved to allow the heavy bench to be dragged from its usual position, and he was satisfied that it now rested directly underneath a cluster of brightly burning torches mounted around the rooms’ immense central pillar. To Wyleggnir’s troubled dark eyes, the brightness of the torchlight seemed harsh, almost violent, as it starkly illuminated the sharp edges of bones as they stretched against the shrunken skin of the gaunt body that appeared to hold no signs of life. Wyleggnir’s heart sank as he approached the unconscious King whose survival was now solely his responsibility.

Rarely did Wyleggnir question his abilities as a healer, but a spark of momentary doubt flickered across his mind as he began to examine Loki’s limp emaciated body. A flash of pain followed the doubt as it occurred to Wyleggnir that his King, who was also his close personal friend, seemed impossibly small and frail as he lay exposed and injured upon the unpadded bench. The apprentice hovered behind him as he bent forwards and began to examine his patient, observing everything, and absorbing any information provided by Wyleggnir as he spoke in a low grumbling voice. Though the bench was chest high for most, it barely reached Wyleggnir’s waist, and he spread his solid legs wide to make maintaining his position as comfortable as possible.

Loki was descended from one of the smaller tribes of Frost Giants, but his overwhelming charisma gave him an air of authority that marked him as an undeniably powerful leader regardless of his small physical stature. Wyleggnir could only hope that Loki’s current frail appearance was due to the absence of this forceful personality, and not an indication of a life-threatening condition caused by his prolonged imprisonment and starvation. The King’s long absence from his homeworld of Jotunheim would have weakened him physiologically also, but the planet itself would be renewing his strength now that he had returned.

With a measured breath, Wyleggnir calmed his mind and allowed the experience of centuries spent healing his people to murmur through his thoughts as he began his work. Healing was his calling, and he sent a brief prayer of thanks to the forces that had directed his life to this point. Without the whims of the Gods, Wyleggnir knew that he would have followed the path set down by countless generations of his ancestors and become a stonemason, and he was thankful every day for the events that had altered his path and guided him to his current occupation.

His broad powerful hands moved quickly over the face and head of the diminutive King, feeling through the matted black hair for hidden injuries with surprisingly sensitive fingers. His massive thumbs swept over the King’s high cheekbones with enough pressure to detect any fractures and brushed down along his jawline with practised efficiency.

As his hands searched across Loki’s injured body, the dozens of small runic tattoos that decorated his knuckles rippled and danced, spelling out charms of protection and healing as they moved. Wyleggnir no longer noticed the tattoos as he worked. The ritualistic designs etched into his skin defined him as a healer and reached far deeper than any physical decoration as each mark was imbued with ancient lore carrying the knowledge of generations of healing practices. They had once appeared starkly black against his pale grey-green skin but had become faded to an indistinct dark grey as his skin had aged and hardened.

Wyleggnir’s hands cautiously tested the cartilaginous area at the front of Loki’s throat and pinched along his fine collar bones before he moved lower and felt along the ridges of each rib in turn. Once he was confident that the ribs were undamaged, he placed both hands flat on Loki’s chest with his fingers pointing upwards towards his shoulders. He noticed with surprise that his hands entirely covered the ribcage of the smaller man. Leaning close to Loki’s face, Wyleggnir pushed down sharply, listening to the air as it rushed out of the lungs before checking inside the mouth for flecks of blood that would indicate an internal injury to the airways.

As Wyleggnir worked, his quiet monotonal explanation of his findings was easily audible to his assistant as he stood beside him and watched with intense concentration. With gentle pressure he methodically moved across the abdomen, momentarily frowning and pausing when he found something of interest. His reaction was noticed by the younger Jotun, who flicked his eyes from Wyleggnir’s face to the prostrate King with sudden anxiety. Wyleggnir quickly reassured his novice that he had not discovered anything of serious concern but explained that from the shrunken size of the stomach he could tell that the King had not eaten anything at all in many days. He guided the young man’s fine hands over Loki’s sunken abdomen and allowed him to feel the shrivelled organ for himself and was pleased when the youth noticed that the bowel and bladder were also completely empty. Wyleggnir nodded in approval and began to examine the musculature and bony structures of the Kings’ painfully slender arms and legs, grunting in satisfaction when he found no serious injuries but becoming increasingly distressed at his advanced state of starvation. The assessment finished with an inspection of Loki’s genitals, and Wyleggnir was relieved to find that there were no signs of injury to be found.

As Wyleggnir straightened his broad back with a slight groan, his eyes met those of several clan leaders who had moved to stand in the doorway of the bedchamber behind the guards as they waited for news of the King’s condition. He dropped his gaze again and pointedly refrained from speaking to them until his examination was complete.

“Margermeer [Marg-er-mere], roll him so that I can assess his back.” His deep voice held an edge of gruffness brought on by concern for his friend.  
Immediately the young assistant stepped forwards to grip the shoulders and hips of the King and smoothly rolled him onto his stomach, allowing Wyleggnir to conduct his survey of ribs, hips, shoulder blades and spine. He found nothing requiring immediate treatment. Wyleggnir took a deep breath and recited a silent prayer as he used two fingers to part Loki’s buttocks and inspect his anal area. He again sighed in relief at the absence of injury. It was a matter of honour for the Jotun that all prisoners of high rank were treated with dignity, but Wyleggnir was well aware that they were among the few races that showed any degree of decency to their enemies.

Wyleggnir indicated that Margermeer should return their patient to his original position, and instructed him to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth to clean the open wounds before they applied a potent healing tar. Margermeer practically ran across the bathroom to gather what he needed and began thoroughly wiping and irrigating the countless sores that marred Loki’s dull blue-grey skin as Wyleggnir took a moment to consider the most effective treatment for the seriously weakened King. With a deep sigh, he turned to his right to face a square wooden table, its dark legs carved intricately with geometric designs and whose upper surface had been blackened and polished smooth over the centuries it had stood in this room. He had placed his medical kit there when he first arrived and now that he had conducted his examination, he knew exactly which items he would require. 

His medical bag was constructed of a wooden frame bound in inch-thick heavily tanned leather and reinforced by several bands of studded metal. The scuffed bag was a boxy rectangular shape of about three feet by two feet, and about one foot deep, with a wide shoulder strap attached for carrying purposes. The leather wrapped entirely around the box, protecting the contents from loss or damage, and created a flap that became a neatly sealed lid when closed and secured. The upper portion of the flap was slightly wider than the body of the bag and shaped so that it fitted snugly when shut.

Wyleggnir released the unornamented buckles of the two heavily stitched leather straps that held the flap closed. Centuries of use had worn through several layers of metal, and the buckles had become an abstract pattern of grey, black and silver, with a dull coppery colour appearing on the lower edges where they often rubbed against Wyleggnir’s thigh as he walked. He flipped back the worn leather covering to expose eighteen compartments of varying sizes that were divided by a lattice of narrow wooden dividers. The wood provided structural strength and prevented damage to the contents, while a thick layer of felted animal hair lined the central compartments to cushion the few precious glass and pottery vessels that held his potions. The rest of the sections held a multitude of leather pouches, linen bags and sprigs of dried herbage tied with twine. While the exterior of his bag had taken on an earthy brown tone after extended exposure to both the elements and the oils produced by his skin, the internal leather retained its original rich burgundy colouring, though it was becoming blackly smooth in a couple of more commonly used areas.  
The familiar spicy leathery smell of his vocation washed over him as he reached into the most frequently accessed pocket, where the leather had been worn by his touch and pulled out a small leather pouch tied tightly with a knotted leather cord. The runes inked onto the bag that described its contents had all but faded into oblivion but Wyleggnir knew exactly what he was doing. He unfastened the complicated knot with ease and opened the narrow neck of the pendulous bag that stubbornly retained its original shape, having been made from the cured scrotal leather of an ox-like creature. Margermeer immediately stopped his wound cleaning and took hold of the bag, knowing that he could clean each wound as he worked. 

“Apply this to all abrasions of the skin. And Margermeer, make sure you check for injuries between toes and fingers as you do.”

The young Jotun leapt into his task eagerly and Wyleggnir shook his head slightly at the endless enthusiasm of youth. He had been training Margermeer for nearly thirty years, and readily admitted that he showed much promise as a healer, but he was also prone to exhibit a deal too much excitement and Wyleggnir was required to frequently remind him that healing was a steady occupation and not an impulsive one. He observed Margermeer for several moments as he began smearing a thick black tar to the King’s injuries with the tips of two elegant fingers. The young Jotun was just as tall as Wyleggnir, though his lean physique was the opposite of Wyleggnir’s heavyset muscular shape, and his cobalt blue skin appeared somehow more vivid when viewed beside Wyleggnir’s muted grey-green colouring.

Margermeer sensed that he was being watched and turned to flash a brief excited grin at his teacher. The display of gleaming white canine teeth, each a full two inches long, would have been considered mildly antagonistic if not for the gleam of enjoyment that flashed in his pale strawberry eyes. Wyleggnir couldn’t help liking Margermeer, who seemed to find even mundane tasks enormously exciting and who worked equally hard at any task given to him. He also found Margermeer’s consistently positive attitude a balm after long hours spent in the company of gruffer and grumpier old men discussing political matters as a member of the King’s inner council. While Margermeer showed the highest level of respect for Wyleggnir, he was not afraid to ask questions or voice his opinion, and Wyleggnir considered, not for the first time, that he would make a highly successful healer, and felt a surge of pride that he was helping to shape a bright future in some small way.

Removing a wad of tightly packed wool from a central compartment, Wyleggnir carefully withdrew a stout clouded-glass bottle fitted with a wooden stopper. After setting the bottle down beside his bag, Wyleggnir slid a deeply bowled metal spoon from a side pocket and wiped it clean with a small cloth that had been stored with it. He carried both the bottle and spoon and placed them beside Loki’s head and then called Margermeer to his side. His experienced hands were steady as he measured out the thin clear liquid with the spoon and passed the open bottle to Margermeer, who sealed it and returned it to the correct place in the bag with elaborate care. When Margermeer returned, Wyleggnir had him hold Loki in a semi-seated position to allow the medicine to flow down his throat without choking him and slowly tipped the contents of the spoon into his slack mouth.

“Make yourself comfortable and hold him there until he begins to waken.” 

Wyleggnir leaned close to use the remaining minutes of complete unconsciousness to examine Loki’s crimson eyes for injuries, but again he was pleased to find nothing. It appeared that the worst of his treatment consisted of being nearly starved to death, and while the raw injuries to his ankles and wrists from being manacled were ugly they were of no consequence. Having also been stupefied by an unknown substance to render him compliant, Loki would take some time to regain his senses, but that was just a matter of waiting and watching now that he had swallowed the purgative mixture.

The potent herbal medicine that Wyleggnir had administered to his King did not work by counteracting the initial drug or poison, but instead triggered the patients’ body to detoxify itself extremely rapidly by eliminating any foreign substances. It made no difference what drug was causing the patients’ symptoms, the result was startlingly effective. The purging process was extremely unpleasant, but it was the most effective method to treat cases of poisoning. The King was not a full-blooded Jotun, but his mixed Asgardian/Jotun lineage would only marginally impede the healing properties provided by the Jotun portion of his physiology. Now that he had returned to Jotunheim, the unknown power located within the very core of their home planet would strengthen and sustain him as he healed. The planet itself somehow gave unparalleled restorative abilities to those born of Jotun blood; fractured bones knit together strongly in a fortnight, and deep piercing injuries healed even faster. Systemic diseases were uncommon and were either completely benign or swiftly fatal with no middle ground. Loki’s minor physical wounds would be fully healed in just a few days, though his strength would probably take slightly longer to be fully restored.

Wyleggnir stood silently above his patient and focused his eyes on the smooth skin of Loki’s forehead as he waited impatiently for the potion to work. The experienced healer did not realise that he was holding his breath until he sighed with relief when Loki groaned weakly and his emaciated body began to shiver. Margermeer raised his pale red eyes and searched Wyleggnir’s expressionless face for an indication that this was a normal reaction to the treatment and the healer correctly guessed his unspoken question and took advantage of the teaching opportunity.

“The potion is beginning to take effect. There will sometimes be a minor variation in physical reactions dependent on the substance being eliminated, but shivering, sweating, and vomiting are the most common. If you watch the skin closely you should see sweat beginning at any moment. Experience will eventually enable you to identify the poison responsible by examining the colour and odour of the sweat. This information can be useful if additional treatments are necessary that are specific to a particular toxin.”

Margermeer leaned closer towards Loki’s cheek and watched closely until he saw a green-tinted oily sweat beginning to bead on the King’s dirt-smeared face. Wyleggnir took a small white glazed bowl from his medical bag and held it against the side of Loki’s neck until a small pool of the oily liquid had been collected, then set it aside for Margermeer to study later. The sweating increased until it created a multitude of small clean tracks on his skin as it ran downwards from his body onto the bench. Loki shivered with increasing violence and his limbs jerked spasmodically as the sweating eventually reached its’ peak, but Wyleggnir maintained his composed watchful pose. Margermeer could feel rivulets of sweat running down his own arms to drip from his elbows onto the floor as he steadfastly maintained his position supporting Loki as the process continued long into the night, even though the acrid chemical smell of the sweat was making his eyes burn.

It was almost six hours before Loki’s breathing changed and the shivering lessened. He groaned weakly several times and only opened reluctant tired eyes as his mouth began to salivate with the threat of impending nausea. Margermeer remained silent as Wyleggnir leaned forward to assess the exhausted and sweat-drenched King.

“You are home, my Lord, have no fear. The feeling of sickness will pass as the poison leaves your body. It is good to be in your company again.”

Loki’s slightly unfocused eyes met his friend’s and he attempted a weak smile as he fought against the queasiness that was becoming overpowering.

“And I am glad that the first face I see is yours, my friend. Thank you.”

Wyleggnir nodded and bowed slightly, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the level of familiarity shown by the King with so many others nearby. Loki resignedly closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as another wave of nausea washed over him. Wyleggnir recognised the symptoms and quickly held a large wooden bowl in front of his friend as he managed to bring up a large quantity of foul acidic liquid. The herbal treatment had forced his body to separate the poison from his bloodstream and had redirected the toxins into both his digestive organs and his skin pores for swift elimination. Even though Loki’s stomach was essentially empty, he choked and retched painfully for an extended time before the waves of nausea subsided.  
Wyleggnir joined Margermeer in assisting Loki to sit up after he had finished purging and Loki gingerly lowered his legs over the side of the bench and steadied himself with shaky hands clutching tightly at the edge of the wood. Wyleggnir saw with increasing dismay Loki’s protruding ribs and shoulder blades, and the concave abdomen that disappeared between painfully visible pelvic bones. He also noted the characteristic hunched posture of a starving man whose strength was close to spent. He stepped away and returned with a measure of herbal medicine in a small mug. It was blatantly obvious that Loki would be unable to support himself in a seated position and hold the mug at the same time so Wyleggnir held it gently to Loki’s cracked lips. Loki gave him a somewhat annoyed look and reluctantly opened his mouth to drink the honeyed fluid, anticipating an unwelcome repeat of nausea and vomiting. Wyleggnir’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes as he laid a gentle hand on the young Jotun King’s bony shoulder, troubled as he noticed the trembling that shook Loki’s entire body.

“This is a different potion and will work to restore your strength. There will be no uncomfortable symptoms this time.”

Loki nodded in relief and sat quietly with his head bowed, waiting impatiently for his disjointed thoughts to become coherent once again. Margermeer, who had been hovering nearby, approached his master and asked something in a low whisper and Wyleggnir nodded, complimenting the apprentice on his consideration for the comfort of his patient. While he waited for the novice to gather his requirements, Wyleggnir called out to the chamber guards and requested specific food and drink to be provided for the King. Wyleggnir was one of only three people, including Loki himself, with enough authority to issue orders to the guards and he directed that some heated mead, fresh bread and thin broth be brought to the chambers, With a brisk nod, one guard turned smartly and marched to the palace kitchen to obey Wyleggnir’s instructions. Wyleggnir remained close, ready to catch Loki should he falter and fall, but the thin shaking arms continued to support him as he sat and breathed deeply of the familiar fresh scents of his own personal chambers. He was home.

Margermeer crossed the large bathroom to empty the foul contents of the wooden bowl into the flowing water that moved through the toilet channel and left the dirty bowl on the floor for the attendants to clean later. He chose a hammered metal bucket and wooden cup from a table containing a wide selection of bathing supplies and filled the bucket with water from the large sunken bath nearby. Placing both containers on the bench beside Loki, he retrieved a low wooden stool and placed it on the floor near the King’s feet. Wyleggnir had taken a bottle of scented lotion from a similar bathing table and handed it to Margermeer before gently taking Loki’s skeletal arm and helping him to stand. With Margermeer supporting Loki’s meagre weight on the other side, they carefully turned the King around and lowered him to sit on the stool facing the bench.

Loki wearily folded his arms on the edge of the bench that was now level with his shoulders and leaned forwards to rest his forehead on them. Wyleggnir pursed his lips in distaste as he easily counted the spinal bones that jutted against his friends’ skin and saw the wide blades of the scapulae sharply defined against the parallel lines of ribs. Loki closed his eyes and allowed the two healers to bathe him as he sat. Wyleggnir rinsed through the King’s matted oily hair four times before he was satisfied and by this time Margermeer had completely washed and rinsed his body. The black healing tar was formulated to resist water and was unaffected by bathing, so the wound treatments did not require repeated attention. Once he was clean, Loki raised his head tiredly and Wyleggnir was quick to offer a mug of heated mead, a commonly used way to give an invalid sustenance. Loki drained it in three gulps but Wyleggnir did not offer further food, knowing that Loki’s stomach had been empty for a long time and that it would resent too much being introduced too quickly. Instead, he brought over a pitcher of spring water and a cup, and Loki drank several draughts before handing the cup back.

This time when his weary gaze met Wyleggnir’s it was more focused. 

“Thank you for your care, Wyleggnir, I am in your debt.” 

He looked towards Margermeer who had been hovering behind his teacher, keen to aid but not get in the way.

“Margermeer, come closer, your care is also appreciated.” 

The younger healer stepped forwards with a mixture of nervousness and pride. Loki took a moment to study the Jotun who was much younger and taller than himself and could see the earnest honesty on his face. 

“You are of the Nordandalr [Nord-an-dar] Tribe, is that correct? From the northern Region?” 

Margermeer nodded furiously. 

“Yes, my Lord, from the village of Nuhy [Nee], almost as far north as the great ice desert.” 

Loki nodded. 

“I offer you the position of secondary healer to my household, if that is agreeable to both yourself and your master.” 

Margermeer’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“It would be an honour, my Lord, to serve you in any way that you wish. I will do my best to serve you well.” 

He was bowing almost double as he spoke, overwhelmed with the responsibility he was undertaking long before he had finished his training and become a qualified healer. 

“Always remember, Margermeer, that I do not choose members of my household because they will agree with me.” Loki paused as a feeling of light-headedness swept through him. “I choose them because I value their opinions and skills and I insist on complete honesty and openness in all of our business. It will be a test of your self-confidence and your principles, but I predict that you will do well with a wise tutor like Wyleggnir to guide you.”

Margermeer bowed low once more and Wyleggnir joined him. 

“You do me a great honour in placing such faith in my novice, my Lord. I too believe that he will do well.”

Loki nodded and eased himself to his feet, still weak but feeling markedly stronger. He stretched slowly and carefully, wincing as long-disused muscles complained at the movement. He was about to reach for a towel when Margermeer appeared with a towel already in hand and began to carefully pat his skin dry between injuries. Wyleggnir called for the King’s guards again, and two immediately entered and stood to attention on the other side of the bench. The healer ordered that a loincloth and fur cloak be fetched. Mere moments later, a guard presented a neatly folded garment to his King, then bowed and left the room, while another guard stood close-by with a plush fur cloak draped over his outstretched arms. Wyleggnir helped Loki to wrap the strip of cloth tightly in a figure 8 pattern around his groin and laced it up at his waist. Most Jotun wore only a pleated loincloth, the straps that held their cloaks, and a belt for weapons around their waist. Shoes were unnecessary, and, as they did not feel the cold, clothing was more or less optional most of the time. The wearing of loincloths was mainly to satisfy their obsessive focus on cleanliness and hygiene rather than a solution for nudity. Wyleggnir, aware that Loki would be self-conscious of his poor physical condition, draped the cloak around his shoulders and pulled it around to the front where Loki’s hands grasped it and held it tightly closed.

Now that he was feeling somewhat revived, Loki turned to the assembled clan leaders who crowded in the doorway between his bathroom and bed chamber and bowed, thanking them all for their patience while he was incapacitated. With an effort, he straightened his back and walked shakily through his bed-chamber into the main room and sat in his usual chair at the nearest end of the massive oaken table. The active members of his inner council who were present quickly assumed their appointed seats at the table, while those who were not yet fully-fledged members sat on long benches just behind them. The room was large enough that there was still considerable space between the benches’ occupants and the heavy wooden furniture that was positioned around the walls on all sides. Anyone who was not a sworn member of the council stood to the side of the room to hear the address of the King. 

“I am indebted to you all, and your clansmen, for securing my release. I propose that Foglmenni [foe-gull-many] continues to act as Regent and head of council until I am able to resume the throne. It will take me some time to study everything that has occurred within our realm since I last attended the council. It would also be unwise for me to take the throne while my strength is so diminished, and I wish to ensure that I am no longer affected by the chemicals forced upon me in captivity before I undertake any important political tasks. Foglmenni, are you in agreement?” 

Loki looked to his right where an expressionless dark-skinned Jotun sat. 

Foglmenni nodded once and turned his deep violet eyes towards Loki. 

“It would be an honour to continue as Regent for as long as you wish it, Majesty.” His strained voice was hoarse but firm.

Loki nodded and glanced around the room. 

“And how says the council?” 

The room was filled with a chorus of approval and Loki nodded in relief. He could feel the weakness deep inside him and knew that a King needed to be strong or risk his people. Foglmenni had performed admirably as leader of the rather fragmented Jotun tribes prior to Loki’s appointment to the throne and had stepped comfortably back into the position when it became apparent that Loki had been abducted. He had maintained discipline and order throughout the land, while he also worked tirelessly to locate the missing King and liberate him. He had been among those who travelled to the Ravager stronghold earlier that day when Loki was found and freed and had escorted the fallen King back to Jotunheim. Loki was entirely comfortable leaving the realm in his care for a little longer. He knew that Foglmenni was an experienced leader and an intelligent man and that he was widely respected by the tribes as a whole. Loki felt no hurry to resume his throne while it was in safe capable hands. 

Wyleggnir approached and leaned close, warning Loki not to tax his meagre strength by spending the entire night in discussions with the council. He gave his friend a pointed look and excused himself and Margermeer before the leaders began to give their reports to the King. Wyleggnir had every right to be there as part of the council, but he found the grandstanding of many of the clan leaders painful in the extreme and yearned for the quiet of his own home and a hearty meal.   
.......................................................

He and Margermeer walked down the lengthy passageway that led from the Kings’ chambers to a large foyer and pulled their thick cloaks around their shoulders before pulling open a large wooden door and stepping past several guards into a bitingly cold wind that carried a light dusting of snow. Wyleggnir turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes, momentarily enjoying the coldness after the stuffiness of the internal palace rooms. Margermeer paused at his shoulder and waited patiently, watching as the healer savoured the sensation of windblown snow. With a heavy sigh, Wyleggnir turned towards Margermeer and reached out from underneath his cloak to pat him on the shoulder, then began to walk through a growing layer of snow towards his own dwelling. 

The constant wind, directed and funnelled by the solid buildings that lined the cobbled roadway, tore at their cloaks as they walked unhurriedly past several large stone-built structures and turned right down a secondary street. Halfway down the street they turned left and entered a much narrower alley that led them to a heavy wooden gate set within a high stone wall topped with vicious metal spikes. The guard on duty recognised his master immediately and ushered them inside the gate before bolting it securely behind them. The two Jotun crossed a small courtyard and strode up three large steps to a massively thick wooden door that swung open as they approached. They entered a well-lit entry hall where an attendant brushed the snow from their cloaks with a stiff bristle brush with practised efficiency. 

With a slight grunt, Wyleggnir deposited his heavy medical bag onto the small deeply scratched table just inside the door, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up before shrugging his cloak back behind his shoulders. His bare feet padded quietly across the entry room. There was a dull grating noise as he pushed down on a solid iron latch, raising a thick metal locking bar from its’ cavity within the massive wooden beam that flanked the door. Wyleggnir opened the inner wooden door and entered the main room of the house, breathing deeply in pleasure the aroma of roasting meat that permeated from the kitchens nearby. Margermeer followed and closed the door behind him, allowing the locking bar to return to its well-worn slot within the immovable timber frame. Without a word, Margermeer continued through into the kitchen to bring out the meal that would stand waiting to be served, while Wyleggnir crossed to his preferred chair close to the fireplace and sighed as his bulky body settled onto the comfortable thick padding provided by many layers of furs draped over the chairs’ wooden structure. He leaned back and allowed the tension he had felt while treating the incapacitated King to dissipate a little as he relished his surroundings. He knew from experience that it would be some time before Margermeer would return.

This particular room completed a picture of absolute perfection in Wyleggnir’s mind, and he could think of no better place in which to live. If his household had been larger, the room would have been uncomfortably cramped, but with just himself and Margermeer to accommodate it was perfectly to scale. The pale grey stone-block walls were superbly finished and showed no signs of rising damp or cracking mortar, and the darker flagstones of the floor were flat and regular. Simple iron brackets were spaced around the walls at head height and each held a stout wooden torch coated in flammable tar, though only every second one was lit tonight. At the far right of the thin rectangular room, a fireplace constructed of three immense dark stone monoliths contained a hearty log-built fire, throwing an orange glow over the rest of the space. 

Two deep wooden chairs with reclining backs faced the fire, each covered with multiple layers of thick furs for comfort. Each chair had a small side table covered by a pliant leather cover that fell in soft folds to brush against the floor, the upper surface of which was marked by innumerable circular stains that matched the bases of the drinking mugs and cups to be found within Wyleggnir’s sideboard, which stood nearby against the wall. Between the more heavily used chair and the fireplace stood a stout padded stool, and Wyleggnir gratefully stretched out his left leg, sighing in relief when the elevated position immediately eased the ache deep within his scarred knee.

Behind him, a large timber table stretched most of the way along the room. It was surrounded by an assortment of mismatched fur-covered chairs and bare wooden benches. The far third of the table was buried underneath an assortment of scrolls and paperwork that were left untouched by the hvargi on his instruction. The rest of the table shone with a patina only possible following centuries of wax polish and constant use. The well-crafted joins between the wide planks of dense timber had absorbed a portion of wax with each application and had become darkly visible against the rich red-brown of the wood, though the table surface remained entirely free of gaps. Several deep gouges, the result of long-forgotten indiscretions by drunken residents and their guests long before Wyleggnir possessed the table, had become worn down into smooth-edged concavities that held a thicker layer of the dark polish and added to the world-weary appearance of the ancient furniture. The wood of the table at the far end, where it was visible through the scattered scrolls, was thickly spattered with candle wax that had been deposited during Wyleggnir’s countless hours of reading. He slept poorly and filled long nights with texts that were intended to broaden his knowledge and banish his boredom. A cluster of partially burned candles, as well as several that stood on conveniently available serving plates, surrounded his favoured chair at the table. Close-by was a much thicker candle of higher quality wax that was less prone to fluttering and produced a brighter flame for reading. It rested on an upturned drinking mug that had become so heavily encrusted with wax dripped by the long succession of candles that had burned in that same position that its original colour could not be determined. 

Around fifteen minutes later Margermeer returned to the main room carrying a large platter of roasted meat in one hand and a bulky loaf of bread in the other. When Wyleggnir noticed the relaxed tilt of Margermeer’s mouth and the pronounced spring in his gait, he rolled his eyes and ran a tired hand over his face. It was blatantly obvious that his novice had once again made the most of his time in the kitchen, using the ever-compliant staff to satisfy himself physically while he supposedly waited for the food to be served.

The Jotun species consists of three distinct sexes – male, female, and hvargi [huh-varr-gee], which when translated into English means ‘neither of the two’. The essentially genderless hvargi form a substantial portion of the population and occupy the vast majority of domestic staffing positions. They lacked the defined musculature of the male Jotun and grew no facial hair as many of the menfolk seemed to find fashionable. The hvargi were exceedingly lean and angular without the breasts, wide hips or fleshy buttocks that would generally be expected of a human woman. Jotun households consist entirely of males and hvargi, with the female Jotun secluded in their own heavily fortified city some distance away. With lifespans of up to 10 000 years, it was prudent to minimise breeding to prevent overcrowding and starvation, and only those few Jotun men who earned the privilege were granted access to the females, and then only for a short time.

The hvargi, meanwhile, benefited from a society-wide arrangement that encouraged only members of their sex to work as domestic staff. Male Jotun pursued a trade or profession or joined the Kings’ army as a warrior and lived in the palace barracks, and females remained in their city to be made available for procreation when appropriate. The hvargi lived in comfortable lodgings within their masters’ house, ate the same food as the rest of the household, received any necessary medical care, and were guaranteed protection from outside threats as members of their masters’ household. Their calm and ordered temperament allowed them to find satisfaction in performing their daily duties with absolute efficiency and to the highest standard possible. The hvargi were naturally inclined to be organised, and they excelled in any task involving complex planning and preparation. This simple life suited them, and they happily enjoyed a safe, comfortable, and busy existence where their work was appreciated and valued by masters who thought of them more as helpful companions than employed staff. 

While occasionally an individual from a different species may be purchased from a different realm to be employed within a household, more often as a curiosity than anything else, hvargi were preferred due to their permanently placid temperament and complete compliance. They were highly trained in all aspects of domestic management from a young age, and efficiently kept their masters’ house in order without complaint. Wyleggnir could expect his dwelling to be tidy (except for the scrolls on the table that were not to be touched), his firewood stocked, his clothes clean and mended, his larder well-stocked, his bedding fresh, and his meals carefully prepared by the tall silent hvargi who hovered unnoticed at the sides of the room until their services were required. They were also available for sexual use without preamble or effort. Foreplay was completely unknown to the Jotun race and the receptive anatomy of the hvargi made it entirely unnecessary. If a Jotun required sexual satisfaction, he simply indicated this fact to the nearest hvargi with a small hand gesture, and they would immediately make themselves available for his needs. He would expose his small ridged cock (smaller external appendages are advisable when the climate is frigid in the extreme, and, as the satisfaction of a partner was of no consequence, size didn’t matter) and satisfy himself in less than a minute before walking calmly away. It was efficient and uncomplicated and completely without emotion. The hvargi barely noticed the swift and minimal penetration, and merely looked bored as they stopped what they were doing and bent over to be used. The only variation in sexual position depended on the stature of the Jotun in comparison to the hvargi, with taller Jotun forced to kneel rather than stand behind the hvargi. 

It was understood by all Jotun that household guests were welcome to utilise the hvargi of their host as if their own, and Margermeer was certainly enjoying this aspect of living with Wyleggnir. While it had not yet reached a point where Wyleggnir had to curtail Margermeer’s attention to the hvargi staff so they had the time to actually perform their usual duties, it was becoming frustrating that meals were constantly delayed when Margermeer entered the kitchen to collect the food and became distracted from his task. 

Wyleggnir’s residence was small compared to most but it displayed the typical balance of men and hvargi among its inhabitants. Six guards worked a rotating roster and ensured continual vigilance and security at the access gate because even during peaceful times it was prudent to live cautiously when you were part of a race of warrior giants. A company of fourteen hvargi worked in Wyleggnir’s house, organising themselves to efficiently perform domestic duties, maintenance of the building and grounds, tending to the livestock within the grounds, and managing stores of provisions. Wyleggnir himself was the undisputed head of the household, and it was to his personal preferences that the hvargi staff tailored their efforts.   
He preferred candles made of ox-based wax to those made of boar, and his hvargi, familiar with his penchant for reading long into the night, traded for the appropriate type and quality and ensured an abundant supply. Wyleggnir did not drink beer but enjoyed a substantial amount of mead on a daily basis, so there were always several large mead barrels in the cellar, and one tapped in the larder. Most of his meals were meat-based – beef from aurochs, boar and ox (both wild and domesticated), venison during the short season it was available, and poultry. His excessive enjoyment of roasted fowl had led to the procurement of a number of tame birds and their introduction into his high-walled grounds around 180 years ago. They had flourished in their open-air enclosure and had bred with vigour, producing more than Wyleggnir and his household could possibly consume. He had gifted some to his closest friends and traded for furs at the market with those remaining. Now his staff sent the excess poultry to market on a regular basis, and the income derived was used to gradually add a selection of expensive seasonings to the pantry, and to purchase the incredibly expensive reading candles that Wyleggnir used to complement the standard lower-quality ones. Wyleggnir was still slightly awed by the fact that he had a small box full of pure salt in his own larder, as it was a rare indulgence that only the wealthiest could afford. He decided that salt greatly improved the flavour of many dishes and had become partial to using it with every meal. 

It was practical that Margermeer would live with him during his centuries of training, and Wyleggnir had taken great pains to select a novice whose personality would agree with his own, knowing that it would be difficult to live so closely with a stranger with whom he did not get along. He found Margermeer to be relaxed and intelligent company, and they could debate a topic for hours without serious argument. The novice was extremely eager to please, and often anticipated Wyleggnir’s needs and acted without the need for instruction. On more than one occasion Wyleggnir had returned from a lengthy walk to consult an isolated patient and found the pain-relieving balm he used for his knee and a mug of heated mead steaming beside his chair, while Margermeer stood inside the entry door to take his medical bag and replenish the items that had been used. It seemed that the youngster possessed an unending amount of good humour and enthusiasm, and it amused Wyleggnir to watch him pursuing as much knowledge as he could to satisfy his considerable curiosity. Margermeer also happily spent considerable time with the domestic staff while helping with general domestic chores in addition to his studies. 

His behaviour was nothing new to Wyleggnir, he knew that young Jotun men were initially obsessed with carnal activities when they finally reached the appropriate age to experience them, and he knew that the novelty would wear off given time. Margermeer had only recently been introduced to the easy availability of the hvargi and he took every possible opportunity to satiate his raging bodily urges. Tonight, he disappeared towards his room as soon as he had served his master’s meal. He was eager to continue studying a manuscript of particularly interesting historical folk legends that he had found in the palace library, but not before he returned to the kitchen under the guise of collecting his own meal to carry to his room. He was able to enjoy some pleasurable moments with three of the four hvargi attendants. The fourth had been busy with a task that could not be interrupted, so he had contented himself with three and strolled happily to his room.


End file.
